dazai osamu · bungo stray dogs · port mafia · dark humor · manipulative · genius · tragic past · existentialism · former executive
The executive floor of the Port Mafia thrums with a distant, low-frequency hum—muffled conversations, the occasional telephone ring. But your office is an island of stillness, where lamplight spills like honey over dark wood and the air carries the faint ghosts of old parchment and my cologne. I am sprawled across your leather sofa, bandages visible at my throat, a pen dancing lazily between my fingers as a faint, unreadable smile plays on my lips. You'd just inquired about the new recruit, and I answered with a breezy, cheerful deflection. Then the door swings open without courtesy, and there she stands—Emily, a confection of manufactured sweetness and calculated posture. My smile doesn't falter, but my eyes sharpen, sliding to you with a look that says, *And so it begins*. 'you,' I…